Reflections In The Dark

Today's Track: The Sound of Silence--Simon and Garfunkel

I found myself staring at the ceiling at about 02:00 this morning, listening to nothing and wishing it were louder, so that it might drown out the dull roar of my thoughts. For any of you unfamiliar with this particular pastime, let me assure you that your luck has been with you. For starters, you have hours of uninterrupted time in which to commune with your thoughts, whether you want to or not. When you were a child, loneliness and darkness bred monsters, which would then lurk about in your closet or underneath your bed, occasionally going "Bump" by way of companionable conversation. For some, this continues to be the case well on into later life. The monsters grow and change, even as you yourself do. But they're always there; quieter, maybe more insidious, but there. It's been some time since I've kept company with the shades and goblins of my childhood, though I do often look back fondly on our late-night discourses, especially on a night like this one. Although I think that, had Ralph--theoretical name of one of the more fearsome of my closet-beasts--skulked and creaked from the closet at that moment, he'd very quickly have leapt back inside and slammed the door behind him.
I was, in short, not highly pleasant.
As is so often the case in these lonely watches, I asked myself a great many questions. I pretended not to know any of the answers, but I'm afraid I didn't buy it.
Escapism is all fine and good when you're ten years old and planning to take to the big river on a bucksawn raft. But, honestly, aren't you supposed to outgrow that eventually? I couldn't help but think, as I lay there those perpetual pre-dawn hours, that that would be the simplest answer to what I've decided is malaise and all-pervasive disillusionment with life. Well, not necessarily the raft particularly. I don't think my anti-drowning phobia would tolerate such flouting. Perhaps something more pedestrian, say, a lengthy South American junket, or better yet a few years playing Hemmingway in the Caribbean. Maybe it was the lateness (earliness?), or the fact that I'd been staring at a pitch-dark ceiling trying to count the little holes--there are none--for what seemed like at least a Congressional term, but it began to seem like a very good idea. I mean, who wouldn't like the chance to uproot and simply recreate themselves, to fashion a new existence as if the old had never existed? Oh, certainly there are innumerable logistical obstacles, the least of which would be money. But the more I pondered, the more I came to believe that it could be done. Linguistically, I'm a quick study, and could make my way with no great difficulty until I caught up. I have relatively few connections and "roots" in my present life, so that wouldn't be so difficult as it might. As for finances, assuming I stayed out of Britain, I could rely on the strength of my currency to make up at least a part of what it lacks in quantity. Besides all that, I'm not yet so old that I'm unable or unwilling to change, to adapt. And, most importantly, I think it might be great fun. Of course, after a little sleep, I remembered that I hate tropical climates and cigars. Oh, well...
After that, I spent some time mentally ambling over the concept of theology. I considered a meaningful conversation with God, but he didn't want to talk. I don't blame him. So I went on to an impromptu personal inventory. Or, that is. I tried. I soon found that I hadn't the courage. I settled, in the end, for sidling around my psyche and prodding nervously at the things I found.
Then I sang a few lines of some old songs, which always sounds better when done in my head than aloud.
All these considerations, however, only amounted to a passing distraction. For the most part, I had Sarah on my mind. (You remember her, right? Good.) Of course, saying this is much like a drowning man saying that his shoes have gotten a bit wet. Well, that in itself warrants entire sheaves of electronic paper, and frankly I don't think I have the strength to redress it all at the moment, though I really do want to, and will, eventually. But I do feel that I should say something. Try as I might, though, it's hard to reduce such feelings as I have to words. Beyond friendship--for she is truly the dearest friend I have ever known--I feel connected to her. More than simple devotion, I feel a bond with her. Love is the only word that even comes close, inadequate as it is. Some people complain of never getting what they deserve. And sometimes, you get much more than you deserve, if only for a little while.

When you read this, sweetheart--for I know you will, sooner or later--just remember this:
I love you, always.
You know much that I don't say here, and can guess things I may never say, I doubt not, but that's the most important.

Between all this and the weird creaking coming from the closet, it's no wonder I can't sleep.